


stars flutter into dust

by sansapotter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Duty, F/M, Letters, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansapotter/pseuds/sansapotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was stupid to imagine he missed her. Stupid to believe that he would spare his lady wife a thought while he was at the Wall. He couldn’t even be bothered to reply a simple letter...</p><p>or a marriage of duty doesn't always mean it's lacking in affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stars flutter into dust

**Author's Note:**

> So originally I wanted to do a filthy letter ordeal a la Henry VII x Elizabeth of York for the Game of Ships challenge, but then this became a beast of its own. Special thanks to [Blackholeofprocrastination](http://www.blackholeofprocrastination.tumblr.com) for reading this over, though I'll shoulder the responsibility for grammar misses.

She was stupid to imagine he missed her. Stupid to believe that he would spare his lady wife a thought while he was at the Wall. He couldn’t even be bothered to reply a simple letter, Sansa huffed drawing the furs to her chin. He spent most of the day, and the better part of the evening writing letters; to the Greatjon, solidifying plans to ride into the northern mountains; he maintained correspondence with the Lord Commander at the Wall; he wrote to his aunt, often Sansa suspected they were not strictly letters of business but leisure, maybe even pleasure. 

She could have accepted his lack of response if she did not watch his mouth tilt into a smirk when Prince Aegon wrote, or his eyes soften at his correspondence with Queen Daenerys. It was the lack of desire that kept him from writing to her while he was away, not a lack of time. Thank the gods she only sent the one, sweet, but not too revealing. Not like the one she kept hidden away in the solar, still sealed.

The creak of the door stopped her from dwelling too much on the thought. Sansa knew the moment Jon slipped off his boots, felt the shifting of the bed when he settled in beside her. Some nights he threw his arm across her, tugging her close, usually after they made an effort to produce an heir; most of their nights were stilted moments, one trying to keep out of the other’s way. It was better, Sansa supposed, better that Jon should keep his distance lest she lose sight and let herself believe he was in love with her.

Sansa Stark was only her claim after all it seemed. 

Married to assert the Dragon Queen’s right to Winterfell, married to her bastard half brother to earn the support of her father’s bannermen. He was no Lannister, no Tyrell, but he was not the man Sansa imagined herself marrying. No, Jon Snow was a man of duty to his wife and nothing more. She let herself forget that once, it wouldn't happen again.

The weight of the bed shifted, Jon’s hand gently came up to brush the fall of her hair from her neck. Sansa shivered in spite of herself. The purposeful movement of his mouth across her pulse, hand moving up her ribs to brush across her breast, he always touched her before in an effort no doubt to make her feel less like a breeding woman. 

His movements were predictable, a gentle press to her shoulder had her on her back. He braced himself on his elbows, keeping his weight off of her, a quick dry kiss to her lips, his hand drifted down to raise her shift, soon his fingers would follow. The warmth of his body disappeared, and she felt him shouldering apart her thighs, his beard tickling the soft skin there, too close.

“What are you doing?” she jerked upright, pushing him back with the ball of her foot. His full mouth was drawn into a confused pout, eyes dark.

“I just thought… after that letter, and how you felt.” The confusion lingered as the cloudy look in his eyes faded.

“What letter?” But she knew the moment he mentioned it which letter he spoke of. The confession, detailed, gods almost filthy, written in a moment of loneliness and longing that came with his absence. Unsent when her first letter remained unanswered, the moment she realized amorous as he was in their chambers she was a claim to him. His right to Winterfell was awarded by the Queen, strengthened by their marriage, nothing more.

“I found it when I was looking for the wax.” He said, voice soft with what could only be pity.

“You had no right to read that,” she hissed, righting her shift.

“It had my name on it,” he said softly.

“It wasn’t sent to you though. It was still sealed wasn’t it?” It was her only defense to the humiliation, to keep him from using those feelings against her. 

“Sansa,” he began, but she had already removed herself from the bed. Prepared to take herself as far from him as possible, she tugged on her dressing gown knotting it tight at her waist. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” she snapped, “I don't require your sympathy.”

Deliberately avoiding her husband was more difficult than she originally expected. For as aware of his comings and goings as she was, he seemed to be instinctively conscious of her whereabouts. He just happened to be passing the sept as she left, in the morning; when she walked to the hall before supper he was leaving the maester's chambers. If she was in the Godswood he was in the yard; when she was at the kennel he was in the armory. 

He was so often gone from the keep that she forgot how entwined their lives were when he was here. It was no matter, he was to leave for Kings Landing on the morrow, gone for three moons. In that time she would run Winterfell on her own, and gods willing resign herself to the state of her marriage. She could only hope that by the time Jon returned she would find herself as much a creature of duty as he was. 

Duty brought her to the rooms they shared due to the state of the keep; she sought to avoid them until well into the night recently. Not for fear that he would take her without her consent, Jon Snow would never do a thing such as that. No, her only concern was that he would try to explain himself, and she would be allowed hope once more. Too often did she allow Jon to be her beacon of hope; he saved her in the Vale, though he didn’t know of that; he saved the realm, though he’d never admit to it; while he only married her for her claim he saved her from the hands of a less gentle husband. 

It was a surprise that his touch never came. He lay beside her, pose mirroring her own. Guarded and still, it was as though he was waiting for her to speak. If she spoke she would reveal everything in her heart, and be forced to face his somber stare when he couldn’t find the words to say he didn’t feel the same. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” 

“You are,” Sansa answered evenly, remaining still when she heard him turn in his place. He hesitantly put his arm across her middle, curving his body against hers.

“I will miss you while I’m away,” he said softly.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” she chided. They lay still and awake for most of the night. He was probably longing for the nights to come, where he wouldn’t have to share a bed with a cross wife.

It was hours after he had left, a quick brush of his lips against the top of her hand as they parted, that she made her way into the solar. She pulled the drawer open, the one where she hid the letter all those weeks ago, only to find it empty. 

Winterfell was quiet in Jon’s absence; she kept busy enough to fall straight into bed each night and sleep soundly into the morning. She was made aware of the letter while breaking her fast nearly a week passed since the departure of her husband’s party. Jon’s maester friend shuffled to her seat and offered it to her.

She nearly tore into it the moment she recognized the writing across the front. Instead she waited for her heart to slow, broke the wax and started to read. The first words brought a flush to her cheeks, and carefully she folded the page and slipped it into her sleeve. There would be time for that later. 

Sansa resisted the temptation to read it all day, thinking on the words _I must begin with a apology_ , she had read far enough to understand he did not dishonor her on his travels, far enough to learn he was apologizing for their last days together. She heard petitions for what felt like half the day, and walked the grounds, looking at the repairs, checked over the list her steward had gone through and finally, when the moon was high she allowed herself to return to her rooms and unfold the letter. 

Jon’s script was rough, but careful. He’d taken the time to let the ink dry, she could imagine him pulling away to reread his words before writing more. It brought an ache to her heart to imagine him in such a way, especially after such a confession. One that urged her to reach into his side table to find something he left behind.

_I would have replied, but I couldn’t find the words to say. Believe me Sansa, it was never my intention to make you feel unwanted._

The first letter. 

It was folded, careworn, so often read the ink had started to fade from the page; she could cry for how thin the paper was, carried close to his heart. Sansa held the page near, trying not to miss a thing. The way he inked out certain words or entire phrases so fiercely she couldn’t discern what they might say. Her attention couldn’t be held on those secret phrases for when she read further the words made her ache for entirely different reasons.

_I dream of tasting you, in our bed, in your solar, in the weirwood chairs where we hear petitions. I dream to distraction._

That last night when he lay in the spread of her thighs, she hadn’t imagined it was a moment he thought on, or imagined ever. She didn’t know such a thing was done, it wasn’t a thing she could fathom happening but it still made her yearn for his return, though he’d be away much longer. 

She wondered what sorts of things he could teach her if she allowed it. Would she enjoy them? Certainly she enjoyed the time they spent abed, his touch was always gentle

 _and I do hope you’ll forgive me once more, I left Winterfell with your unsent letter. So if you decide to leave this unanswered, at least I will have that part of you._

Sansa read it another time, then another, until she was sure she would dream the words until he returned. The next day passed in a haze, a marriage of duty, one lacking more than basic respect she was equipped to deal with. Sansa had spent more than half of her life reimagining things to help her cope. To be cared for, perhaps one day to be loved, she’d never truly known such a thing before. 

Her reply was written nearly a month later. Her words selected with painstaking care; the knowledge that this letter would not be overlooked took what felt like ages to write. Maester Tarly hovered in the solar, as though expecting it would be done at any moment. He found himself disappointed often. He might have felt more relief the day the letter was sealed and sent away than she.

Then Sansa waited.

Her stoic husband’s observations of court arrived not long after. She would drink his words if she was able to so she might never lose the feeling of learning about him. Should he return and their interactions remain stilted and difficult it might give her the courage to push through. Their hearts weren’t strangers, but would their bodies understand?

The words came easier by the fourth time around. She sent it herself, wanting it to find him before he left Kings Landing. With it sent she set about preparing for his return, on top of the duties she had around the keep. Just as she was after his departure she quickly fell asleep, only her once dreamless nights were filled with Jon. 

When his squire rode to the gates she felt anticipation flutter in her belly. At once her hands jumped to twine and twist, gods would he be the same as he was in her letters? Could she bear it if he wasn’t? Worse, could she bear it if he was?

She allowed herself the luxury of a bath only hours before, and wondered if Jon could tell when he finally dismounted and took her in his arms. Sansa’s worries were for naught, for the moment he was at her side she was unsure that he would ever be forced away. For a moment she thought he offered his arm to her, but instead it wrapped around her waist in a way that she might have considered scandalous, but sent a delicious shiver up her spine. 

It seemed that he might only eat with one hand so his other could stay affixed to hers, she would have delighted in it, were he not worn from the journey north. “There’s venison, and mead. Honey cakes for dessert, and dancing. A feast fit for your return.”

“You planned this?” He asked, looking around the hall in wonder. It wasn’t much, Sansa wanted to say, for it was less than a Lord returning to his castle deserved. It was nearly the same as any other evening, save for the singers. Only she’d asked the cook to prepare Jon’s favorites instead of her own. Determined to be a welcoming wife. The food was had, jovial sounds of dancing rang through the keep. Sansa watched Jon out of the corner of her eye, anxious for what was to come. 

“Do you feel like dancing my lady?” His voice was low, breath warm against her ear. She shook her head feeling a flush creep up her neck, the longer he looked at her the more she felt her face heat. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I just want,” the words felt foolish on the tip of her tongue, she almost didn’t say them at all. They had to be honest, “you don’t like to dance.” She started, eyeing him carefully, “and I just want to spend time with you.”

That confession led to her being led through the Great Keep to their rooms, heart pounding in her chest so quick she was sure Jon would see it. She sent the maids away from their rooms when copper tub was filled with steaming water. Jon immediately began to discard his clothes, stripping down to his tunic, while she took to a chair and picked up her needlework in an effort to give her hands something to do, and afford him privacy.

The bar of lye slid across the floor, and the room went still. 

“Sansa?” Jon’s voice made her jump. “Would you mind?” He tilted his head toward the soap on the ground, and Sansa rose quickly to return it to him. “Nothing has to change,” he said softly, catching her trembling hand in his.

She dipped the bar into the water, wetting her sleeves, and nudged him forward. Gooseflesh broke across his back when she scrubbed the lather across his back. His hands gripped the edges of the tub, she wondered if he was nervous like she was. When they were abed before she’d never allowed her hands to wander too far. If she was feeling particularly arduous she would grasp at his shoulders, but most nights they remained tangled in the bed sheets. 

She scrubbed at his hair, pleased with the way he followed her hands in an attempt to maintain the contact. He made low content noises that she felt from the tips of her fingers, to her toes. With a final submerge he reappeared free of the travel grime, and soap. Another day she might have insisted that his face be shaved, but she’d spent many a sleepless night imagining the coarse rub of his beard against her thighs. 

How it happened she could not say, but one moment he was in the tub, and the next she was bearing him down on the bed, with his skin soaking through her gown. Jon cradled her head in his hand kissing her breathless, like it might go on forever. Close, but not close enough. His eyes widened comically when she broke away, and struggled with the laces at her back.

Chest to chest, with her gown in a haphazard heap on the ground, Jon’s mouth moved against her neck. His breath came hot at the shell of her ear where his teeth tugged. Her eyes closed at the feeling, pleasure prickled at her skin. Calloused palms moved along the curve of her waist, steadying her as one of his thighs wedged between her legs. It pressed against the spot where she ached the most, and he seemed to know just what she needed. Her body came alive under his touch, but his words made her heart flutter with anticipation. 

“I don’t think we’ll be able to leave this bed for years,” he guided her into a slow rock against him. 

“Years?” Sansa hummed when one hand left her waist to palm her breast, “I can’t imagine what we could do for days here. Hours perhaps, maybe days, but years Jon? What could we possibly do for years?” She teased, and in a flash she was against the mattress, Jon looking up at her from between her thighs.

“Your imagination’s served us well thus far my lady,” his beard rubbed at the skin of her inner thigh, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

**Author's Note:**

> on [tumblr](http://www.sansapotter.tumblr.com)
> 
> title from As Is The Sea Marvelous by ee Cummings


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